


Shade's Respite

by RTrashPanda



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), No Smut, Original Character Death(s), Post-Apocalypse, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RTrashPanda/pseuds/RTrashPanda
Summary: Humanity met aliens and found them hostile. After many years of war, the O'stari left as suddenly and inexplicably as they arrived. Now all that remains are the descendants of the survivors, scraping out an existence in the arid wastelands of Earth. When a half-human daughter of the O'stari teams up with a disreputable scavenger to find her own origins, they discover a far more ominous truth.





	1. Graveyard of Towers

**Author's Note:**

> Minor scary situation in this first chapter. Will add future warnings as they apply.

Chapter 1: Graveyard of Towers

 

“ _Some are born lucky, yes, but some are named doubly so.”_

_\--_ Taco Jack, gentleman adventurer

 

In the vast emptiness of the arid plain, the remains of the overgrown city lounged like a dark cat soaking up the sun. A lone figure slipped quietly across the broken asphalt and between the twisted piles of metal and cracked cement, her cloth covered face turning to cautiously scan the area. Amarice knew that a bandit gang had claimed this ruin as their own, despite the dangers. Not only were the decaying cities prone to collapse, but opening sealed rooms in pursuit of valuables could release a cloud of poison at any moment, even so many years after the last of the O’stari ships vanished from the sky.   
As an experienced scrounger, Amarice had an intuitive understanding of the buildings from Before and their layouts, though she couldn’t say for certain what the exact purpose of each style had been. Some were massive towers of twisted metal slowly fading into dust. Others sat between them like squat toads on large pads of that ubiquitous gray stone the People from Before seemingly used for everything.

The latter was what she was looking for this time. Often dismissed by those in her profession who were less skilled with picking locks, this type of building might contain security boxes and other unclaimed goods for someone who knew where to look. Amarice crouched between two piles of rusted scrap, checking for the sounds of anyone hostile before proceeding to her destination. As she crossed the concrete pad, she passed under a damaged, half hanging sign with some of the letters missing. Amarice could only guess that “gasoline”, whatever it was, had been very important to the People from Before. It must have been as valuable as water, judging by how common the stores housing it were.

The expansive front windows had long been shattered, leaving behind shards glittering in the merciless sunlight. A shock of green leaves crowned with vibrant red flowers curled around the door frame, slowly devouring the soggy wood and crumbling bricks. Amarice left it undisturbed and crept around to the side of the building where she suspected another entrance waited.

A large rust-streaked metal bin lay on its side between the buildings but its contents had long been collected or scattered. Amarice had seen many of these bins in her forays into other ruins. Sometimes they were useful to smiths, who would pay good fochs for them. She dismissed it as too large, too noisy, for her needs before proceeding into the empty hole in the side of the “gasoline” store where a door had once been.

Keeping her ears open for the sounds of something dangerous, she let her eyes adjust to the gloom and inhaled the uncommon scents of green vegetation. Not all of the ruins she scavenged were as thoroughly invaded by the alien greenery as this place. She stepped further into the room, admiring the dance of dust motes in the shafts of light filtering through the branches. Something under her foot snapped, prompting the fluttering beat of diminutive wings and she froze. The O’stari hybrid sparrow glared at her from a creeping perch at the broken front window, blinking two of its four dark eyes before flying out. When Amarice could breathe again, she examined the room, carefully staying out of view of the storefront.

Passing the remnants of deserted shelves decorated with tiny perfect diamond cutouts, a silent display of the skillful craftsmanship of the People from Before, Amarice came to a counter top devoid of anything but dust and the smashed form of a drawer-machine. Nothing inside. No matter, it wasn’t what she came for anyway.

She ducked behind the counter and knelt in a small pile of debris. Opening the drawers as quietly as possible, she hunted for something portable. Her nimble fingers searched the mostly empty drawers, tentative to prevent cuts. Sometimes one could get lucky and find something valuable, a gem forgotten or overlooked amid the dirt and decay. Her hand brushed something firm, but light. Withdrawing from the drawer, she pulled the treasure out and examined its condition for a moment before tucking it away in her clothes, grinning wide behind the coarse rag covering her face.

Amarice turned her attention to a compartment door to her left. Noticing the telltale cutout and the simple lock holding it closed, she pulled a small pouch from the folds of her clothes and opened it to reveal a collection of her own handmade lock picks inside. After a moment of concentration and wiggling the flat bladed pick from her pouch, she felt the small amount of rust break away and the latch turned. The door opened with a low squeal, exposing another locked door behind it. This one was made of pitted black metal and had a dial above a lever built into its face.

Smiling in anticipation, Amarice pulled a small funnel salvaged from one of her previous excursions out of a small pouch on her hip. She wedged it between the cutoff fingers of her worn brown gloves and pressed its wide mouth to the front of the security box, allowing her bare finger pads to rest against the door. Then she leaned down to listen at the narrow end of the funnel as she slowly turned the dial. Some of the old security boxes had false tumblers inside, but Amarice practiced often enough with opening them to hear the difference. This one was of a lesser quality, though still more challenging than many scavengers were capable of opening. After a couple minutes of concentration, the lever rotated easily. The bars slid into the door with an audible click, disturbing a swirling cloud of dust from the top.

Taking a flask of oil from her pouch, Amarice poured some out onto the hinges and swung it open slowly. The smell of the blended animal fat and seed oil might draw predators, but she’d be long gone before anything too dangerous showed up. Inside she found two zippered bags. She opened the first one and found only a bundle of small fliers printed on something more like cloth than paper. She held them up to the light to examine them.

Some of the fliers were crinkled with well defined folds while others appeared fresh from the printing press even after so many years. There were a lot of copies of two of the designs and a few of a third. Amarice could read the words printed on each, but didn’t fully understand what they meant. She guessed that the words “In God We Trust” indicated that they were some sort of religious artifact. Such things usually had no value except to collectors and historians unless they were rare, so she ignored most of them, selecting only one that was in particularly good condition to keep.

“George Washington,” she murmured, reading the bizarre name beneath the face. “I don’t know who you were, but you have a nice expression.” She tucked the note into her hip pouch.

As soon as her hand touched the second antique bag, she could feel the heft of it. Amarice ripped it open easily, dropping four paper wrapped rolls of coins into the dirt on the floor with soft thuds. She hastily stooped to pick them up and shove them into her pouch. Finding a stash of coins wasn’t as good as finding plastic fochs since their value was more fluid, but most merchants would accept them anyway. She would just have to haggle carefully.

The sound of a low growl and voices coming from outside the storefront interrupted her avaricious daydreams. She looked up sharply and moved quietly towards the destroyed front window so she could peer through the tangle of branches to get a glimpse at the coming danger.

A large canine, bigger than anything strictly native to Earth strained against a leash held by a man in the tattered mismatched garb of the local gang inhabiting the tower graveyard near the far edge of the ruined street outside. Two other gang members trailed behind, laughing at their compatriot. The beast sniffed the ground, its coarse, mottled fur standing on end. It pulled at the leash hard enough towards where Amarice was hidden that the bandit struggled to hold on.

Amarice cursed under her breath and backed away from the open front of the store in disbelief, trying to reach the back door without being spotted. She’d always heard that it was impossible to train an O’stari wolf-dog, and yet she couldn’t deny the evidence in front of her eyes. Hiding wasn’t much use, they already knew she was in the area, it was just a matter of time before the monstrous hybrid pinpointed her location. She had to think fast; the only advantage she had was a head start.

Slinking up to the opening in the side of the building, Amarice risked a glance outside. She hadn’t been spotted yet, but she couldn’t go back the way she came. Which meant taking an unfamiliar path and potentially trapping herself. She ducked behind the overturned metal bin. There was an open path in two directions and either would give her away in moments as soon as that bandit and his hound cleared the corner of the building. Remembering the size of the jaws on that beast, she took a deep breath and ran directly away from the pair, heedless of the noise.

The animal howled. Its call reverberated off the buildings eerily, starting low then rising in pitch and volume, announcing the start of the chase for all to hear.

Amarice pumped her legs as fast as she could, knowing that the wolf-dog could easily beat her for speed. She just hoped to get to a safe place before that happened. For a moment, Amarice cursed the People from Before and their penchant for large buildings built so far apart. She didn’t dare look behind herself, but she could hear the beast’s claws scraping the pavement getting closer; the bandits were further behind. Good. That left fewer enemies to evade. Out running the gang was no problem; she just needed to find someplace where the wolf-dog couldn’t follow.

If she had to choose between being killed by that hybrid abomination or being captured alive by the bandits, she would prefer the former. Many bandit gangs were content to simply rob travelers on the roads, but Amarice had heard stories of people who had been captured in the gangs’ territories, never to be heard from again. There was no consensus between storytellers; sometimes the unlucky victims were used as pleasure slaves. Sometimes they were eaten. In either case, Amarice didn’t want to find out if the stories were true.

Turning sharply to her left, Amarice flew up a flight of stairs towards the open lobby of a massive tower leaning into one of its neighbors. Broken shards crunched under her boots as she skipped sideways through the dilapidated frame of the glass door. Not stopping to admire the stonework of the lobby floor, she found an open stairwell and ran upwards, taking three steps at a time. She heard the wolf-dog scrabbling behind her, apparently struggling to find purchase on the still smooth tiles. Amarice filed that information away for later.

The stairs were entirely made from metal with small cut sections twisted to provide grip, leaving rough diamond shaped holes. Amarice resisted the temptation to look down through the hollow steps, determined not to think about all the rust she was seeing or how much the stairs were shaking under her pounding footfalls. The wolf-dog seemingly had no such fears, its growling and scraping claws echoing loudly under her in the stairwell.

Four more floors up the stairs simply ended. Amarice turned to pass through an open door frame, then the floor tilted unexpectedly under her feet. She went sliding wildly down at an angle as her hands scrambled and failed to hold onto something, then flailed as she tumbled across a void and down into a lower floor in the adjacent building that was supporting part of its neighbor’s weight. After rolling to a stop in a tangle of vines and leaves at the far edge of the room, Amarice coughed, gulping the air as if she were drowning. She rose up on shaking arms and leaned into the solid wall covered in twisting plant life as she limped towards another rotted out doorway. Her nose was assaulted with a malodorous fungal scent rising from the remains of the carpeted floor. She noted the variegated jewel-like colors of the flowers dotting the hallway she was currently standing in, the alien O’stari flora thriving in the bones of the native building from Before.

She caught sight of the wolf-dog through the gaps in the tangled vines. It hesitated at the slanted floor, its nose working furiously to catch her scent again. It growled low as it stared down at her, but seemed unwilling to risk the slide and the jump. She could hear the shouts of the wolf-dog’s trainer in the distance. She continued moving to avoid getting cornered, gingerly picking her way through the oxidized reinforcement bars protruding from the broken chunks of the building and the musty refuse littering her path while she held her bruised side.

Amarice found a gap in the floor around the intruding main trunk of the vines. Wider than both of her hands stretched out, she was pretty sure it could support her weight. Her appraising gaze drifted over the length of the alien vegetation. Realizing that the plants were doing more to support the building than its own durable construction, she placed a firm grip on the vines and began making her way down.

The thick vines were surprisingly easy to climb, though she felt every bruise and scrape from her fall. She considered that she might be getting too old for this kind of excitement, that maybe settling down and doing some normal, secure work might better serve her needs. Farming like her mother, perhaps. Amarice quickly dismissed the thought; boredom would probably kill her faster.

After finally reaching the ground, Amarice patted her clothes to reassure herself that she still held the prize that would make the whole trip worthwhile, then she continued limping away from the sun, towards a town beyond the horizon.


	2. How Precious this Life

Chapter 2: How Precious This Life

 

“ _I pine for you as the once growing rock, now pallid in death, lies whispering of the red blush leached by its watery home.”_

\--Wall Xaco, _Moonfall Song_ , verse 17

 

_The figure in the distance was hazy, appearing to emerge from a carpet of golden dry grass, its colorful robe billowing in the breeze as it contemplated the remote black clouds interrupting the endless blue of the sky._

_“Zanna,” it called out._

_“Coming, Mommy,” the child responded, running across the field as fast as her short legs would allow. Somehow her mother was further away._

_“Zanna, baby, you have to go inside. It will rain soon.”_

_The girl tried to run faster; if the rain was dangerous to her, it would be bad for Mommy, too. But her mother was still slipping even further away._

_“Remember,” her mother said, at once a shout like thunder rolling in from far away and the tiniest whisper by her ear, “from the stars we arrived, to the stars we return.”_

 

Zanna opened her eyes to the dusty gloom,  lying  in her own bed. Her star-shaped pupils set in overly large irises, courtesy of her  half- O’stari  heritage , adjusted faster to the semi-darkness  of her room  than those of a full-blooded human.  She sat up and rubbed her face, thinking over the … dream? Memory  deformed by sleep ? She couldn’t be sure. 

The smell of  something delicious  cooking  tickled her nose as she yawned. Throwing the ragged, thin blanket off her lap, Zanna got out of bed, then groggily pulled on a pair of worn leather boots before  pushing the privacy curtain to the side and  wandering out into the main room.  Her uncle  Tem aar  was already dressed for the day and sitting on the rough wooden bench  near the fire. He handed her a plate and flashed a smug grin.

“ Morning,” her uncle greeted her. “I knew some running bird would wake you up.” 

She touched her forehead in the customary greeting usually  given by c hildren towards their parents,  then took a slice of the  rare  dark meat from the pan by the fireplace. “ Thanks. I didn’t know we had any left.”

“ We didn’t,” his smile turned mischievous. “but it just so happens that Brary stopped by and he may have heard that it was your favorite.”

Zanna groaned. “You didn’t.”

“I might have mentioned it.” He said, running a hand through his graying hair. “He seems quite fascinated with you.”

“I know,” she grumbled, not wanting to think about the discomfort of the hunter’s gaze following her whenever he visited. “I prefer the quiet; he talks too much.”

Temaar shrugged. “It was worth a thought. I’m not going to be around forever, you know.”

They ate in silence, then Temaar banked the fire, the embers buried to be stirred to new life at a later time.

“I want you to buy some nails from Mart,” he said, pulling a handful of fochs out of his pocket and handing them to her. “Fifty more should be enough to finish the chicken house, but we’re almost out and I have some other work to do.”

She balked at the thought of going to the market alone. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Everyone looks at me like an animal.”

“Nonsense,” Temaar chided. “You’ll be fine. Just remember to keep your head down and no one will even notice you.”

Zanna regarded the assorted colorful disks in her hand thoughtfully.

“This would be too much if I were fully human,” she said in a glum tone.

Temaar wasn’t letting her get out of this. Unlike her, he was as human as anyone else likely to be at the market. “Sounds like a good opportunity to practice your bargaining skills then. If you have anything left over, get yourself a treat.”

* * *

Amarice sauntered into Taco Jack’s with the easy confidence of someone who had done this many times before. It was not the sort of establishment anyone bragged about associating with, not because of the type of entertainment on offer there, but because of the owner. Taco Jack was a remarkably small man for the size of his ego-- boastful, duplicitous, and yet she considered him a long time friend.

She removed her hood and the cloth from her face to reveal curly reddish-brown hair, freckles dusting her light caramel skin, and a turquoise mother’s mark adorning her right cheekbone. For a moment Amarice watched the mostly nude dancer on stage flip upside down on the vertical pole, brace with her arms, and hold a graceful straddle pose. Some of the audience cheered, but most were quietly lurking in their own sections of the dim room nursing their drinks as they pretended to be unaffected by the performance. Amarice had seen this scenario play out enough times to know that the dancer would probably get several private performance requests after that display of athleticism.

Noticing something amiss, she stopped one of the servers. “Where’s Valley?”

“He was scheduled today, but never came in,” the harried looking server replied. “We had to scramble a little to cover.”

“That’s weird,” Amarice commented, pondering. She had wanted to share the news of her good fortune after their last friendly debate regarding who had the most profitable and least dangerous job.

The server shrugged, unconcerned with the dancer’s absence. Amarice turned her gaze upward, looking for the light signifying that Taco was in his office above the main floor and was not disappointed. Making her way up the stairs, she nodded to the doorman before knocking tentatively.

“Come in,” a falsely low-pitched voice called from within. Amarice opened the door to a room better lit with lanterns than the common room downstairs. She ignored the trinkets adorning the office, all mementos of Taco’s past exploits: a hand-written note from a town mayor behind the desk, a painting of him standing triumphantly over the carcass of a bear by the door, a small statue, and many others that she hadn’t ever bothered to look at carefully.

“Ah, Amarice. What have you brought me today?” the small man with thinning hair behind the desk asked.

Smiling inwardly to herself at the thick wire-framed glasses perched on his head, Amarice presented her own treasure with a flourish. “Only some excellent quality Before-crafted dark glasses.”

She placed them on the desk for him to inspect and took a seat, ready to haggle. Taco frowned as he lifted the glasses. The lenses had that iridescent shine characteristic of many of the samples from Before, something no craftsman that he’d ever heard of had successfully replicated, never mind manufacturing plastic. Taco’s mind drifted to the possibilities while he pretended to look over the sunglasses for minute flaws. If anyone ever discovered the secret of plastic, they could become unimaginably rich.

“I’ll give you thirty for them,” he said flatly.

Amarice almost reacted visibly; it was more than she expected. But she was well practiced at this game and knew from hard experience that Taco Jack never opened with his best offer.

“Oh, come on now,” she countered, “you know you’ll be able to sell them for at least fifty-five. But I understand you need to make a profit, so let’s say fifty.”

“Do you see this box on the side?” he asked as he pointed to the squarish gunmetal colored “O” at each of the temples. “The corners are rounded, not squared. It’s not the most precise work from Before. But I like you, so I’ll go to forty. Best offer.”

Amarice gave an exaggerated pout. “But it’s got those thick sides, lots of material, very sturdy. Forty-five?”

“You’re bleeding me dry,” Taco complained, relenting. He counted out the plastic chips and placed them in Amarice’s greedy hands.

“Thank you, Taco Jack,” she purred, using his full name to sooth the sting of defeat. It was very auspicious to be twice named for something important from Before and it cost her nothing when he so loved the sound of it. “My son thanks you, too.”

“Never let it be said that I don’t help those in need,” he said, puffing up slightly. “I have another job for you if you’re willing to travel. This is a hot one, though, so I can only give you a couple days lead time before I give the information to someone else. Can’t have favorites, you know.”

“I might be. How much does it pay?”

“A spark priest came by while you were out. Said his temple needed an O’stari power cell, but the nearest intact O’stari compound is at Shade’s Respite.”

Amarice grimaced. “That’s an unusual request, and a long distance.”

“I know. That’s why I told him 1600 fochs and he agreed to it.” He gave her a stern look. “Of which, you will receive 1200.”

She chewed her lip pensively. It was more money than she had ever had at once before. Her thoughts drifted again to her son.

“And you’ll need a drop of fresh O’stari blood,” he added as an afterthought. “Something to do with opening the locks. Your usual picks won’t work.”

Amarice groaned. It certainly made the prospect a little more daunting. Still that much money might be enough to get her son a complete set of tattoos from the Twisted Snake temple not far from the trading outpost. For him, it could mean the difference between a long healthy life and dying young from sickness.  
“I’ll do it.”

“Good. Like I said, two days. And I’ll only tell if someone asks me what’s on the table.”

Business concluded, Amarice stood and walked out the door with purpose. She was so focused on the coming task that she didn’t notice Taco making a note in the ledger estimating the selling price of the sunglasses at eighty-five fochs.

* * *

Zanna politely thanked the unsmiling blacksmith, and placed the iron nails in her satchel before turning away from his stall in the marketplace. Only three fochs left. She was pleased to have gotten as good a deal as she did, but the leftover money was probably better saved than spent on some frivolous thing. Zanna and her uncle had always lived frugally and as self sufficiently as possible, though others might consider them poor. Now that she was grown, she wondered if it was by choice or necessity. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least look at the goods in the market.

A flash of color caught her eye, drawing her closer to a stall where an elderly woman was selling dust veils. Remembering Temaar’s advice, Zanna kept her eyes downcast as she admired the pleasant texture of the fabrics and the harmonious combinations of color. They were soft to the touch, woven finer than the one she was already wearing, though not as light as the ones worn by the wealthy. As she ran her hands down a particularly vibrant strip in the fabric, the merchant spoke, interrupting her thoughts.

“You can see it, can’t you?” she asked.

Startled, Zanna looked up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You can see the colors,” the old woman smiled knowingly, eyes bright in her wrinkled face. “Not everyone can. What’s your name?”  
Zanna hesitated before answering, wary of strangers.

“I’m Zanna,” she said timidly.

“Kyoto Lo Palma. It’s nice to meet you.”

Zanna browsed the scraps of fabric before settling on one reminiscent of the sky. It was softer and more colorful than any garment she already owned. “How much for this one?”

“Five fochs.”

Zanna let go of the veil as her face fell in disappointment. “I’m sorry; I only have three.”

Kyoto pondered for a moment. “How about I make you a deal? Those beads in your hair-- did you make them? I’ll trade you that veil for two fochs and a bead, art for art.”

It was an easy choice to make; all the wood and bone beads decorating her dark brown waves had really cost her was time. Zanna removed the beads from her hair to let Kyoto choose one, then handed over the plastic chips from her pocket.

“Thank you,” Kyoto said as Zanna tied the showy cloth to cover the lower half of her face. “I hope it brings you good luck and keeps the dust out in your travels.”

Zanna hurried out of the market, eager to show her uncle the new veil. In her excitement she forgot to keep her gaze low until she noticed some of the disparaging looks cast her way. It somehow wasn’t as bad as the looks she remembered Temaar getting when she was a child coming to market with him. They were always distrustful at best, pitying at worst. But today nothing could dampen her mood; she smiled all the way home, thinking about the kindness of a stranger in the market.

 

* * *

Amarice approached a small dwelling nestled in a wide crevice in a rock wall next to a large ditch, a riverbed long dried up like the bones of a snake left out in the sun and wind. She could hear childish laughter within. Taking one last look at the multitude of colors painting the evening sky, she opened the door and went inside.

“Momma!” The small boy with shining dark eyes and a mop of black curls spotted her immediately, slamming into her legs.

“Hey, Stinker,” she said as she picked him up. Amarice tried not to react as the boy’s happy squirming seemed to find every bruise on her ribs. Another woman with a duel-tone mother’s mark tattooed on her cheek turned away from stirring a pot over the fire to regard the pair. Amarice touched her forehead in greeting.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Constru Shear flashed an amused smile at her daughter. “Your trip was profitable then?”

She grinned in return, reaching into her pocket to produce a handful of the colorful pieces of plastic. “I got forty-five fochs, and another job. One that will pay much, much more.”

Constru’s expression darkened. “What will this one cost you? Stinker misses you when you’re gone.”

Amarice sighed; she had anticipated this line of questioning. “This will be a long journey. I’ll have to go to Shade’s Respite, but the pay should be enough to get him a full set of tattoos.”

The boy in question, being old enough to understand that his mother was leaving again, tightened his grip on her neck and let out a wailing plea for her to stay. As much as the sound tugged at her heart, Amarice had to do what was best for him, even if he didn’t like it in the moment. Even if it meant losing some of the precious time she had with him before he would be old enough to leave her side and go to the other side of the village to learn to be a man.

She spent the evening holding him while they ate dinner, then reluctantly putting him to bed before settling into her own uncomfortable sleep.

* * *

Zanna sat in her bed holding her new dust veil. When she showed it to Temaar, he had just rolled his eyes and muttered “I told you so.” She was very happy with her purchase, laying it at the foot of the bed so she could see it when she woke up. The sky blue shades seemed to shift subtly as she relaxed in preparation to sleep, and she thought once more about the previous night. She had lived with Temaar since she was a small child and didn’t really remember her parents, but maybe there was some memories buried deep that only rose to the surface as she lay dreaming. As hollow as it may be, she hoped get a glimpse of her mother again.

Turning on her side, Zanna blew out the small lantern by her bed and curled up with her old, worn blanket to keep away the night’s chill.

Just as she was about to drift off, she heard the sound of glass breaking followed by shouting outside.


	3. Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: character death

Chapter 3: Threads

“Historians say that the People from Before were both kind and generous. It was the golden era for humanity, until the O’stari came.”

\--Ford Deere, storyteller

 

“Smoke the star-eyed beast out,” an unfamiliar voice urged from outside, followed by laughter.

Thick, oily smoke filled Zanna’s room. She stumbled out of bed, slipped on her boots without tying them, then grabbed her dust veil before peeking out from below the privacy curtain. Another glass container shattered outside, spreading more burning oil over the side of their home. Keeping low, Zanna rushed out into the main room, searching for Temaar. He wasn’t in his room and the fire had already consumed part of the front wall of the house. More shouts reached her ears, her uncle’s voice among them. She hurriedly tied her boots and secured her veil before grabbing a poker from the fireplace and leaping through the flames.

The toe of one of Zanna’s boots caught on the edge of the hole in the wall, sending her sprawling on the ground outside. She rolled to put out any of her clothes that may have caught fire and quickly pushed up onto her feet, holding the iron poker ready. Temaar fought three men with a pitchfork while a fourth lay still on the ground near the chicken enclosure.

Another had his arm raised holding a bottle with a lit rag spilling from its mouth in his hand ready to throw at the house, but changed his target when he spotted Zanna. The bottle sailed past her head and through the burned hole in the side of the house as she dodged, shattering against the mud brick floor, its contents splashing and igniting the fragile old cloth that had served as a door since she was small. The flames quickly licked upward against the desiccated wooden support frame and compacted straw they had used for insulation.

Zanna charged him with her makeshift weapon raised, snarling. He started to raise a machete to block her strike but was too slow. Swinging wide as hard as she could, she felt the poker impact his head with a dull crunch. He hit the ground, but Zanna didn’t stop to check his condition. Instead she continued moving, knowing that Temaar wouldn’t be able to hold off the remaining attackers indefinitely.

One of them swiped low with a pitted blade across Temaar’s middle while Temaar thrust the pitchfork into his compatriot, then withdrew the sharp tines piercing the man’s chest as he gurgled his last breath. Screaming her fury, Zanna flung herself at the one that injured her uncle while Temaar smacked the other with the handle of the pitchfork, breaking his nose. Zanna swung the poker but missed as the man swayed backwards, apparently just now noticing that Zanna was awake. He held his blade defensively as he stepped back, glaring at her with pure hatred.

“Your invasion will fail, star-eyes,” he spat the slur at her. Deciding that the odds no longer favored him, he turned and ran. Zanna turned her attention to the last man being held at bay by Temaar’s pitchfork. Looking at them both with unbelieving wide-eyed fear, he stumbled backward, then turned and ran as well, following his friend. Temaar groaned and slumped down on the ground, clutching his belly. Zanna dropped the slightly bent poker and rushed to his side.

“Uncle, you have to get up,” she said, her tone desperate as she slung his arm over her shoulder and pulled. “We have to get to the temple.”

Temaar lifted his hand from the gaping wound, wincing as a spurt of blood seeped into his clothes. Having seen enough injuries like this, he knew it was hopeless.

“Listen to me, Zanna,” he said, grabbing her chin to get her attention. “I’m dying, there’s no way around it.”

“No, no,” she cried, “they’ll help you at the temple. It’s not that far away, just hold onto me.”

“There’s isn’t enough time, you know the same as I do. You have to let me go.”

He slid out of her bloody hands and hit the ground again with a grunt and a soft thud. Zanna sank to her knees beside him, her vision a watery blur.

“I wanted to tell you everything,” he said. “But you don’t have time. They’ll be back with friends and you… need to be gone.”

His voice became fainter. “Go to Shade’s Respite; everything you need… is there. Just put me on the fire so I can rejoin the Earth properly.”

Zanna held his hand until his breathing finally stilled. Sniffling and rubbing her face on the dirty sleeve of her sleeping shirt, she stood and walked to the lifeless attacker she had hit with the iron poker. The house was too far gone to risk trying to get anything from inside. She rolled the body over and removed the machete’s sheath, then searched his pockets for anything else of value. After searching the others, she lifted Temaar’s body up onto her shoulder and carefully placed him among the still burning wood and insulation. She left the other bodies where they lay; let the animals carry them off to the afterlife they’ve earned.

Before setting off, she opened the chicken house and set them free to fend for themselves. At least then they would have a chance. Fortunately, there were clothes still hanging to dry from the fence around the chicken yard-- she really didn’t want to strip the bodies for dirty clothes that were too small for her anyway. She grabbed a few garments as she walked by, never breaking her stride. She could change out of her sleeping clothes later when she had some distance between her and the house.

* * *

The wandering spark priest known locally only as Eleven stood in his workshop, sawing through the tough hip joint of the corpse on his worktable. The dancer wasn’t impressive on his own, but like a huge chessboard, removing a single lesser piece could have a massive effect. The right words spoken at an opportune moment, a piece of knowledge conveyed to the right person-- it was all that was needed to set his long awaited plan in motion.

Eleven had tried to comfort the man with the knowledge that his sacrifice meant that his child would grow up to be a great leader one day as he ripped out one fingernail at a time, but some people simply weren’t capable of perceiving anything beyond their own petty circumstances. The spark priest could see it all clearly though, like the patterns made by wind blowing across the sand. Someone needed to guide their collective fate, so he took action when necessary.

Rising to his full height, Eleven stretched from his hunched position when the final threads of connective tissue split apart. Sweat dripped down his face, but he hadn’t bothered to remove the brown leather mask adorned with colorful dye-print designs and a single panel dark lens through which he viewed the world; it was hot work dismembering bodies in the sacred garments of his order. The leather gloves he usually wore sat on another table nearby. No reason to soil them unnecessarily.

There was some blood dripping on the floor, but not as much as there might have been if he’d handled the body differently. He quickly wrapped the pieces in a large, thin cloth before placing them in a small cart with a potted evergreen sapling, a container of powder, and a shovel before pulling the cart out the door. A short distance from the workshop, Eleven came to a waist deep hole he’d dug earlier and unwrapped the body parts before dropping them in one at a time.

He wiped his hands on a relatively clean corner of the fabric then took the unlabeled powder container from the cart and sprinkled some in the hole before partially filling it in with dirt. He stepped down in the hole to compress the loose soil and discourage wildlife from digging the body up, then lovingly freed the little sapling from its pot and carefully placed it in the unmarked grave, gently pressing the dirt down around its roots.

As the sun sank lower on the horizon, Eleven took a moment to admire the shifting colors of the sky before heading back inside to clean up the remaining blood. That little tree might one day make the difference between the survival of this world and total extinction. He ran his hand over the back of his neck to remove some of the sweat tickling his skin as it soaked into his shirt and took in the sight of the small forest lazily spreading around his workshop.

* * *

Amarice studied the busy marketplace full of people making trades. She was still far from her destination, even after several days of travel. Finding someone with O’stari blood willing to go all the way to Shade’s Respite would be the hardest part of the job by her estimation. She could ask here, but it was probably better if she waited until she was closer still when it would be easier to convince someone to travel with her a shorter distance. Too bad it had to be fresh blood; getting a small sample and taking it with her would have been so much easier. She just hoped the locks at the compound at Shade’s Respite would be fine with blood from someone who was also half-human as all the O’stari had left Earth, leaving behind only the rare half breed.

Turning away from the last merchant she needed to visit to resupply, she caught sight of a young woman at another stall further down the dusty road. The girl easily stood a full head taller than anyone else in the market, maybe more. The lower half of her face was covered with a dust veil, which wasn’t unusual, but her dark wavy hair was uncovered in the harsh sun and she kept her eyes downcast like someone trying to hide. Amarice crept closer, intrigued. Though she’d never met one herself, Amarice had heard a few accounts of the half-O’stari-- many of them no doubt exaggerated their physical abilities, but one thing they all agreed on was that the O’stari and their half-human children were remarkably tall.

Amarice pretended to browse another merchant’s wares to remain inconspicuous. The girl paid for a thick cloth satchel (too much, Amarice noted) and left the stall, oblivious to her shadow. As she did, Amarice caught sight of her prominent cheekbones and bright eyes with distinctive pupils shaped like eight point stars. She looked strange, but it was an alien loveliness that made her exotically pretty rather than grotesque.

Following unobtrusively, Amarice waited for the right opportunity to introduce herself. It was always difficult to begin a conversation with a complete stranger when she needed something in the best circumstances and she was perfectly aware of how it would sound if she simply asked the girl to go with her away from a civilized town for the purpose of spilling her blood.

The half-O’stari girl stopped at a stall festooned with dust veils of all different colors and the elderly trader’s expression twisted in concern as she explained her situation and asked for directions to Shade’s Respite. Amarice couldn’t believe her good luck; she listened intently to the rest of their conversation, making note of their names, while her eyes casually wandered the square. Finally, the girl thanked the old lady and turned to the south, winding her way down twisting alleyways between low-set buildings. Amarice followed a short way, then made her move.

“Excuse me, did I overhear that you were looking for Shade’s Respite?” she asked, close enough for the girl to hear her.

The tall figure stopped and slowly turned around to face her. Good, she had her attention. Time to embellish a little.

“Actually, I was heading back there myself,” Amarice continued, flashing her warmest smile. “I’m Amarice. Maybe we could travel together. What’s your name?”

The girl’s tone was wary; the poor thing must have had bad experiences with people pretending to be friendly. Fortunately, Amarice looked innocuous to most people.

“Zanna,” she said.


	4. Free Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to get a chapter done every 2-ish weeks, but wow, the holidays. Amirite?

Free Fall

“We watched the lights on the dark side of the world die one by one. The ships sank into eerie silence as we lost all communication with ground control. That’s when we knew that Earth had fallen.”

\--Bryce Chandler, historian and teacher, City 9

 

Conan Tarrish pulled hard on the yoke in the cramped cockpit of his shuttle, trying to right his trajectory when one of the wings failed to properly engage, sending him spinning through Earth’s atmosphere. He’d completed a full battery of training simulations, but nothing prepared him for the teeth-rattling force of reentry. The heat-shielded windows of the shuttle began to turn black as tongues of brilliant plasma slid along the exterior. A lifetime spent in the artificial gravity of his home station also hadn’t readied him for the feeling of the slow, yet irresistible pull that Earth exerted on his tiny single-occupant spacecraft.

The space station City 4, formerly known as City 59 before so many were destroyed by the O’stari, was running out of resources. They’d scavenged ships and mined in space to stay afloat after the lights went out all across the Earth at the end of the war, but some things weren’t so easily replaced. After decades of waiting while the patchwork ships slowly decayed, the tiny flare of new lights appearing in small isolated clumps kindled a new hope of return in the citizens of the sky-cities. The lights were near what used to be southern Nevada before humanity set aside their political rivalries. It was time to send someone back, though it was dangerous without guidance from Earth. There was no telling what they’d find and maybe no way to report, but better to face the uncertainty of possible failure than doom everyone in space.

Conan had an insatiable curiosity that compelled him to volunteer for the mission; without any remaining family except for one slightly overweight and spoiled ferret, he had little reason to stay. He saw to the future care of his pet, whom he suspected wouldn’t enjoy the trip even if it was survivable, then a little while later folded himself into the jury-rigged shuttle. After carefully checking the seals, the shuttle had separated from the station with a short blast of the engines to set it into a different orbit to avoid collision. That was the easy part.

Now he gripped the steering column tightly in white knuckled hands as he felt his stomach drop out beneath him while his little spacecraft plummeted in free fall toward the spinning land masses below. Conan kicked the jammed switch that controlled the uncooperative left wing, frantically trying to persuade the stubborn thing to engage. Finally, the coupling ratcheted into place and extended the wing to its full length. His eyes took in the lights blinking an alarm displayed on the dash; he was still coming in too fast to land safely. He fed some more power to the engine, slamming the shuttle sideways as he did to reduce the impact as the ground rushed up, still too fast. His safety harness strained against his rib cage, threatening to snap his bones.

Careening off a large rock, the shuttle bounced and quivered, finally sliding backwards to a stop in a huge cloud of dust and flying pebbles. Conan unbuckled his harness and pulled himself out of the wreckage, coughing and heaving. On hands and knees, he crawled a short distance away, then vomited in a patch of dry weeds. He hated throwing up; it was almost a phobia for him. All the same, his stomach wasn’t going to obey his wishes in this. Now empty, he rolled over and promptly fell unconscious in the refreshingly cool early morning air.

* * *

Brary shrugged on his new coat in preparation to leave his small campsite for a visit to Temaar’s place, hoping to catch Zanna awake and available to talk for a while before starting her daily chores. His old coat was the same style, but he typically wore it while hunting and it was starting to look shabby. Wanting to make the right impression, he strategically broke off several strings from the long leather fringe decorating his sleeves.

To finish the look, Brary smoothed the many fluffy plumes jutting from his hat like the crest of some huge exotic bird before setting it on his head. The hat served to advertise his skill as a hunter and helped him blend in when stalking running birds, which were known to disembowel a person with just one kick of their long legs. He checked his reflection in a small polished metal mirror, one of his few concessions to vanity. Knowing how fussy women could be, he’d gotten his hair and beard trimmed; it was his usual custom to let it all grow wild, which gave him the appearance of a creature more at home in the wilderness than around people.

He collected his pack with most of his gear and some running bird meat, gently patting the fragile gift he had stored away in his hip pouch. As fiercely protective of their communal nests as the animals were, getting one of the head-sized, hard-shelled eggs was no easy thing. Perhaps they could convince one of the chickens to sit on the egg and start their own running bird farm. It was worth a try.

Brary had camped near a stream flowing through the hot, dry land not far from Temaar and Zanna’s home, so he wasn’t walking long when the distinctive stench of rotting flesh and ashes reached his nose. As he approached, a sickening dread settled in his stomach, spurring him to move faster. His strides devoured the remaining distance like an O’stari wolf-dog on a side of beef left hanging too low.

The burnt out remains of the house stood amid several twisted corpses with little more than bones remaining. He moved closer to examine each of the bodies in turn. None of them were Temaar or Zanna, of that he was certain. None had been as tall as Zanna, and the strips of cloth hanging from the bones after the wild animals had chewed on the carcasses didn’t resemble anything Temaar had worn in his presence. All the chickens were scattered, deliberately released from their enclosure. He searched for other marks on the ground, anything to show him what had happened.

It had only been a few days since he last visited, but that was enough time that he couldn’t find much in the way of clear tracks. Some of the deeper gouges in the dirt near the remains of the house suggested that there had been a fight. He also found an iron poker lying discarded in the grass, perhaps taken from the fireplace as a weapon in the heat of the moment. A pair of booted feet sticking out of the burnt ruins of the house caught his attention. He moved closer to examine them.

The boots were torn in places by scavenging animals trying to get to the decaying flesh inside, but what was left was enough that Brary was fairly certain he was looking at Temaar’s remains. He gingerly sifted through the ashes for the bones and anything else that might confirm his suspicions. The charred and broken bone pieces placed together on the grass helped him confirm the victim’s height. There were also deformed iron buttons and a clay pendant. It definitely looked like Temaar’s, but Zanna’s body was still missing. Brary returned to the other corpses.

Looking closely at the mangled cloth hanging from their bones, he noticed something-- some of them had a woven patch stitched into place at the left shoulder, the design a stylized human eye. He didn’t recognize it, but assumed that it was the symbol of yet another bandit gang. Perhaps they were slavers. If they were slavers, then there was a chance that Zanna was still alive. This presented an opportunity. With his skills as a hunter, it might be possible to track them down and rescue the girl. Surely that would be worthy of her attention and with the house destroyed, she would need a place to stay.

Pacing as far as the fading tracks went, he could see that the evidence remaining at the farm was insufficient to tell him about the group’s numbers or where they were like to be found, but perhaps someone at the trading post would know more. Brary pulled a knife from his belt, crouched by a body, and carefully cut away the symbol from the more intact pieces of clothing.   
It wasn’t worth going back to his campsite for what little remained there when he had everything he really needed with him. This was just another hunt, but with different prey. Knowing he had little time to lose, Brary turned toward the small town not far from the site of the attack.

* * *

When Conan woke, the sun was high and the air oppressively hot. He stood on wobbly legs and brushed the excess dust from his clothes. Wincing, he examined what remained of his spacecraft to see what was salvageable.

The twisted frame of the shuttle was beyond his skills to repair. He was stranded on Earth for now, but some of the parts might be useful. Conan pried the simple navigation system out of the dash, really just a glorified compass in his opinion. At least it would never advise him to jump off a bridge. Next came the short range communications, which gave his fingers a little zap when he touched it. Then came the water purifier.

The power generator had a piece of scrap metal piercing the casing through the center, which meant the sparks were coming from a slowly dying battery. It wouldn’t last much longer and probably didn’t have enough charge remaining to boost a signal to City 4. He took all the rations, a few containers of water, and assorted small tools from a compartment under the seat.

Historical records in the sky-cities showed that there were a number of launch sites built at the end of the 21st century. If the O’stari hadn’t destroyed them all, he might be about to find one, access its communications and send a report to City 4. But that still left getting a usable power source, and he still didn’t know yet where he was.

Conan tied all the necessary parts of the shuttle together into a makeshift pack and slung it over his shoulder. Scanning the horizon in all directions, all he could see of interest in the mostly featureless desert was a clump of thin grayish trees in the distance. Trees likely meant water. People needed water. If nothing else, the trees could provide a shady spot to rest while he came up with a better plan. He set off, leaving the gently smoking wreckage behind.

After a few kilometers, Conan cursed his choice in footwear. They were new boots sturdy enough to turn a snake’s bite, chosen specifically for his journey on Earth. That was the problem; they weren’t properly broken in and chafing his feet at several points. And somehow his feet seemed to find every pebble in his path.

Earth was far hotter than he’d imagined. Sweat dripped down his face as the sun pounded on his back and bare head. He passed by towering cacti with limbs stretched to the sky like some kind of sun worshiper and wondered how anyone could live in such absurdly harsh conditions.

When he finally reached the scraggly trees, already too hot and achy after the last 52 years spent in the comfort of the controlled environment in the sky-cities, he didn’t find the life-giving waters of a river. Not even a trickle. It was a dry riverbed, nothing but sand where the water should be. He collapsed against one of the trees and discovered that the ground was covered with thorny twigs. One more irritation. As he considered his options and decided to stay in the shade until nightfall, he wondered for a moment if some tech back home was watching him through satellite images and laughing.


	5. Making Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this took so long. I kept going over it, trying to get it to flow right, but it wasn't cooperating. Please excuse the delay. More coming soon.

Chapter 5

Making Connections

“The Spark Priests are a secretive bunch, but they claim that all of their denominations were started by a mysterious prophet who taught their disciplines to each of their founders.”

\--Ford Deere, storyteller

 

Zanna and Amarice crested another hill in the relative coolness of late morning. It was almost time to rest for a few hours before continuing on under a sinking sun. Zanna found Amarice a pleasant companion, but she still didn’t know her well and was hesitant to let down her own guard. Noting that as much as Amarice made enjoyable conversation to fill the silence of their journey, she never let a great deal of real information about herself slip. Perhaps because she also had walls. Zanna mostly kept her thoughts to herself; her life as a farmer away from any civilized town had given her many hours of contemplation. After so much time alone, she found excessive chatter overwhelming.

Now on the other side, they could see the shine of water winding its way between the hills covered in waving grass. Zanna paused to admire the trees near the water. They were the largest she had ever seen, easily as tall as one of the two story houses belonging to the wealthier families in town, with broad gray-green leaves raucously clapping in the slight breeze and swirls of white fluff dancing around their trunks. Amarice lead the way down to the water by unspoken agreement while Zanna enjoyed the faintly sweet scent of the trees. They descended a sharply curving bank set back away from the glittering flow of water, giving the suggestion that the river had been significantly wider in the distant past, and trudged through the loose, sandy dirt to the water’s edge.

“This seems like a good spot for now,” Amarice commented. She frowned in puzzlement. “It’s the river of snakes, but I don’t see any.”

“Snakes?” Zanna shivered. The snakes back home were well camouflaged in the dry grasslands, but could be avoided if one listened for the warning shake of their rattle-tipped tails. Temaar always insisted that the snakes were a boon, that they kept the rodents well under control. Zanna still found them disturbing, especially the silent, rattleless juveniles. They’d had a special Y-shaped stick for moving the snakes when they found them near the chickens.

Amarice responded with a shrug, unconcerned. “I don’t know why it’s called that.”

They settled to rest through the heat of midday, well away from any rocks or hollows at the bases of the trees; the river might be misnamed, but there was no need to take unnecessary chances. Amarice tugged her coarse dust veil down around her neck to get some relief from the oppressive humidity of her breath. Zanna seemed comfortable enough to continue wearing hers across her nose and cheeks. Admiring the triangular design on her companion’s face, Zanna was overcome with curiosity.

“What’s the story behind the tattoo?” she asked with a nod as she took some dried fruit from her bag and bit into it.

“This?” Amarice brushed the tips of her fingers over her cheek with a slight smile. “It’s a mother’s mark. At home, we get these when our first child has lived through one turn of the seasons, with more colors added each generation. I once saw an elderwoman with three colors in hers; it was beautiful.”

“You have a child?” Zanna prompted quietly, not knowing if they were still alive when life was especially harsh to the very young.

“Yes, a boy. He’s almost three. My mother is taking care of him for now while I’m away.”

“Why do you want to go back to Shade’s Respite?”

“I’m going for work,” Amarice said warily. It was the truth, but not all of it. “I want to save up enough to get my son his own tattoos from the temple.”

“You’re trying to protect him from sickness.” Zanna took a sip from her water skin.

“For his future also,” Amarice explained. “A man’s beauty is meaningless if it didn’t cost him in pain-- every woman in my village knows this. The unmarked bodies of a comfortable life belong only to children.”

Zanna pondered the answer, settling into silent reflection while they rested in the shade. Her reverie didn’t last long. An odd, trilling coo sounded from over the small hill behind them. Both of them turned to peek over the edge of the dirt mound at the edges of where the river used to be. A small flock of running birds traipsed in the direction of the river looking for a drink.

* * *

Conan staggered across sandy soil, determined not to fail in his mission because of something so mundane as heat. The very idea was just too embarrassing. His lips were dry and cracking from the acid in his spit and his eyes were greeted by the illusion of distant water in the heat shimmer. In the shadow of a partially collapsed old building-- _a skyscraper_ , his memory supplied-- he could make out a collection of squat, dark shapes that looked like free standing houses from the archives of City 4. He knew of mirages, that trick of the light that could make a person dying of thirst get even more lost as they chased a fruitless hope, but could they make people hallucinate an entire town? When no better option presented itself, he continued toward the only sign of civilization he’d seen in days of walking.

The shapes became clearer and more distinct as he drew closer. Convinced that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination, he hurried on, tentatively optimistic that the worst was over. It looked like some kind of rudimentary market with small shacks decked out in a variety of mismatched, grimy items lining a dirt road in only the barest semblance of order so vastly different from the neatly organized storefronts he was familiar with at home.

Conan’s heart sank; it appeared that Earth’s civilization had suffered more in the war than the people in the sky-cities realized. He eyed the merchants and shoppers with concern. There wasn’t a single person displaying a telltale glow from their wrist, the sure sign of a communications unit embedded in the skin. No press of bodies endlessly rushing to their destinations. No obscenities falling from annoyed lips as they bumped into each other. No one nodding their heads to a beat only they could hear through tiny devices lodged under their earlobes. There weren’t even any loud voices demanding to see a manager. It was entirely too quiet for his liking.

He surreptitiously watched a transaction in progress, a man in filthy clothes buying a few pieces of twisted metal-- what looked almost like old car parts, long coated in rust. To Conan’s horror, the merchant didn’t offer up a chip reader for the man to wave his arm over. Instead, he heard the soft clinking of actual physical currency passing from one hand to the other. Conan shuddered at the thought of the many hands – and germs – that must have touched the bits of plastic. He eavesdropped on the conversations around him as he walked through the market, trying to acclimatize himself to better blend in with the people around him.

Conan approached one of the merchants, a man with a full gray beard and leathery, sun-baked skin. The merchant smiled in greeting and raised both of his hands. Conan had seen this apparently customary gesture used elsewhere in the market, so he lifted his own hands to mirror and lightly touched the other man’s palms. Dropping his hands to his sides, Conan suppressed the urge to wipe his hands on his pants; offending the locals wouldn’t help his cause.

“Where can I get some water?” Conan asked. “I’m not from around here.”

“I am Roof,” the merchant said as he offered a sloshing canteen to the newcomer.

Conan accepted the water, but inwardly couldn’t help thinking about its dubious quality. He had been inoculated against a variety of diseases before he left his home station, but he was well aware that there were most likely a lot of nasty things that had mutated unique to Earth over the decades. He took a drink. The metallic, earthy tasting water washing over his parched throat was slightly warm, but he was in no position to demand better. Reluctantly, he handed the canteen back to Roof.

“My name is Conan,” he said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. He chose his next words carefully, not knowing if the local people even knew anything of electric lighting. “I’m looking for lights that can be seen at night. The ones that don’t come from a fire.”

“The temple,” Roof said with a nod. “It’s a long walk through dangerous territory; Captured Water temples are not very common. Are you a spark priest, then?”

Conan felt his face fall in disappointment; it was just his luck that his crash landing put him so far off course. Not wanting to betray his complete unfamiliarity with the term, he shook his head. “I’m an engineer.”

“What’s that?” Roof asked. “You don’t dress like a priest, but you have the look of someone who spends a lot of time indoors.”  
Conan cast an assessing glance around the marketplace. Most of the people there wore hand stitched, coarse garments that hid any part of their bodies that might take beating from the sun. By comparison his own clothes were remarkably neat. And now that he was thinking about it, his red, exposed skin was starting to peel and itch.

“You’re going to need supplies to get where you’re going,” Roof said, sensing an opportunity. He spread his hands in a wide gesture over his wares. “As it happens, I have a large stock of traveling gear for trade.”

Conan hesitated. “I don’t have any money.”

“Are you willing to do some work?”

“What kind of work?” Conan raised a questioning eyebrow.

“My sister runs the smithy,” Roof explained. “If you work for her, you can have that canteen and some food-- three days worth for every day you pump the bellows. Or I can pay you in fochs.”

Conan considered the offer. He could only guess that fochs were a local currency-- plastic chips if he had heard right. He suspected the amount offered was nowhere close to what he made at home doing the work that matched his education; that business people would try to get the best deal for themselves possible was a timeless and universal truth. But he had trained physically for months to face whatever challenges waited on Earth. Besides, it didn’t look like he had many alternatives.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Where can I find the smithy?”

* * *

Brary wiped the blood from his blade on the shirt of the dead man at his feet. He held up a pair of crumpled sheets of thick handmade paper recovered from the body to examine the drawing on it. Turning the paper a couple of ways, he realized that it was a rough map. Brary was mostly illiterate-- written words were for people with too much time on their hands in his opinion-- but he was able to make out the notable land features and markings showing several locations, including Zanna’s home.

He had tracked one of the attackers to the trading post, but lost the trail among so many footprints. Luckily for him, he had connections. After a few questions, he’d found himself at a hut on the outskirts. Peering in through a slat over a window, he discovered the man was alone as he gingerly poked at his freshly broken nose.

At first, Brary only wanted to question him, to find out where Zanna had been taken. But he lost all control to his rage when he noticed the patch on the man’s shoulder that matched the others. He had needed no more confirmation; this was one of the slavers responsible for Zanna’s disappearance. The owner of the last set of footprints was likely around somewhere, but Brary didn’t care. He’d flung himself at the flimsy door, breaking it down easily before dispatching the unarmed and injured man. Once inside, he noticed the banner hung on the wall. It had been dyed a deep orange color, with the stylized eye design printed in dark brown on the fabric. That suggested organization and resources; this wasn’t just some small nameless group of highwaymen.

He listened for approaching footsteps as he studied the other piece of paper. The scrawling handwriting formed some kind of list. Uncertain of what the note said, he tucked it away in his clothes along with the map. He knew someone who could read. Maybe he would make more of an effort to learn himself once he found Zanna, since the skill had suddenly become useful.

Brary turned his attention to the corpse on the floor again. He could hide the body and set up an ambush for the other slaver. Quickly discarding that notion, he left the body where it lay and walked out, covering his own tracks for a while as he went. This would give him the opportunity to learn more without wasting precious time as Zanna’s trail grew cold. And if they knew that death was coming for them, it might work to his advantage.

 

 


	6. The Prophet

Chapter 6

The Prophet

“Among the locals, Shade’s Respite is said to be a cursed place that swallows people whole. A gaping maw where spirits consume the unwary.” --Ford Deere, storyteller

 

Eleven surveyed the spark priest temple of the Tethered Ball denomination with a critical eye. The building itself was tall by current Earth standards, and it cast a long shadow over the large junk yard surrounding it. As specialists in physics and engineering, these particular spark priests tended to hoard anything from Before that might advance their understanding; the junk around the temple gave testament to their enthusiasm if not their organizational skills.

Nestled among the piles of twisted metal and decaying rubber was a garden, as disorderly as the rest of the junkyard. Vegetables sprouted from patchwork riveted metal pots and raised beds enclosed in rotten wheels. A modest window box fashioned from a plastic grill from an ancient machine from Before perched under dirty glass panes that sparkled in the sun, a few culinary herbs spilling out of it. But what really interested Eleven was the large black panels perched on stands along the south facing of the building.

He recognized them as solar panels, of course. The unusual part was that they were present around a Tethered Ball temple when power generation was the specialty of the Captured Water temples, which still remained few in number. That a member of a Captured Water temple had made it so far to install solar panels was a promising sign. Any such individual would have needed to pass on instructions for the maintenance of anything they left behind. Shared knowledge was exactly what he hoped for. It meant that Earth was slowly beginning to create an infrastructure, one that worked in harmony with the planet itself. Humanity had been given an opportunity to start over out of disaster, a chance to do things better and it seemed these priests were taking it.

Eleven frowned behind the dark lens of his mask, remembering the trading post he’d passed through on his way to inspect the temple. There had been no sign of advancement among the general population, no one tinkering with old tech to learn its secrets, no wires stretching between buildings. It wasn’t time to celebrate like an overly proud parent at their child’s apprenticeship ceremony just yet. Perhaps the spark priests had veered off course; it had been a long time since he last visited.

He wound his way through the junkyard and confidently strode up to the front door of the temple. Despite his ragged appearance, Eleven knew they would grant him entry and all the information he could want from them; he had ways to ensure their cooperation. A chain dangled from a delicately filigreed iron frame housing a brass bell next to the door. Eleven tugged the chain and waited, rolling his eyes; such an expensive thing just for the front door was frivolous, an unnecessary vanity. But it didn’t matter, a little guidance was all they needed.

A few moments later, a Tethered Ball priest peered at him through a cracked doorway. The face under the metal hat was unfamiliar to Eleven, but that was to be expected. The young man looked up and down at Eleven’s fully covered form, his gaze untrusting. Eleven wore a slightly frayed but still serviceable outfit marking him as a low ranking priest of Captured Water, including a mask with a dark lens for welding, heavy boots, and gloves designed to protect him from shock and heat. Finally, the Tethered Ball priest stepped back and swung the door wide in welcome, presenting his palms in greeting. Eleven ducked slightly to enter the building, ignoring the priest’s unspoken request for polite touch.

“I wish to speak with the master of your temple,” Eleven said, getting straight to the point.

The Tethered Ball priest took a moment to respond, after he made sense of the voice distorted by the mask-- or perhaps he was stunned into silence by the bold request.

“Who are you to ask such a thing?” he sputtered.

Eleven’s lips curved up in a slight smile under his mask; he had been expecting that reaction. It was a good sign.

“The one who can turn the pages of the sacred tablet,” he replied coolly.

“The prophet?” the acolyte murmured, eyes widening. He squinted at the dark glass plate hiding Eleven’s face, trying to make out the shape of his features as his own reflected both disbelief and a fearful kind of reverence.

Apparently deciding that this was a matter far above his station, he relented. “Follow me, please.”

The young spark priest led Eleven past a large workshop filled with assorted builder’s tools, some were power tools from Before disassembled on work tables for closer inspection, but the rest were hand tools most likely crafted by a local blacksmith to the priests’ specifications. Eleven spied with some satisfaction a crowded drafting table with plans laid out partially completed next to a stack of neatly folded sacred codices. He had no doubt that they were the copies of technical drawings from Before, painstakingly hand drawn by the temple’s priests.

Beyond the workshop was another door on the opposite side of the hallway. Inside, Eleven could see a long table made from materials that looked like they came from the junkyard outside, first scrubbed clean of gummy oil and rust, then hammered together with nails in a simple design. Mismatched seating surrounded the table in the communal dining hall. Another doorway stood open at the far end of the room, no doubt leading into the kitchen where the priests prepared their meals.

Turning a corner, they passed by a row of small cells, relatively unadorned except for the occasional bit of old tech and books filled with ancient prayers for their nightly meditations on the great mysteries. With some amusement, Eleven spotted an owner’s manual resting beside a bed, it’s cover crisscrossed with spidery cracks over faded lettering. The book was likely salvaged from the ruins of a city, and the priest currently borrowing it from the temple library probably didn’t truly understand it. At the far end of one of the cells, Eleven could see through a window two of the priests sparring with clubs in a courtyard shielded from outside viewers by large walls of junk. He paused to watch them for a moment, silently evaluating their techniques.

The spark priest escorting him through the temple waited at the base of a flight of stairs for Eleven to catch up, clearing his throat in noticeable discomfort.

“Our master’s study is on the second floor,” the acolyte explained. Eleven still hadn’t bothered to ask for his name. It didn’t matter, really; they were all so fleeting anyway. Maybe if the young man distinguished himself in some way Eleven would make the effort to remember him. As it was, the organization as a whole was far more important than any individual. In fact, becoming too involved in the day to day affairs of the order could very easily upset all his plans. Too many nudges in the wrong direction could set off a disastrous chain of events.

The staircase curved up in a tight spiral and the ceiling dipped slightly, forcing Eleven to hunch down uncomfortably with his larger frame as he climbed the stairs behind the priest. Unlike the hallway before, the stairwell had no windows to the outside; it was illuminated only with the faint glow at the base of the stairs from the hallway below. At night, Eleven imagined that the priests would light candles to navigate the stairs safely. His eyes welcomed the reprieve from the light after so much time squinting in the sun.

At the top of the stairs a single door stood closed. A little short and narrow, the door was made from wood darkened with an unknown sealant to protect the expensive material. _Another needless extravagance_ , Eleven mused to himself as he watched his escort lightly tap on the door. There was the sound of someone moving behind the door and then it swung open to reveal a man with wrinkles in his light brown skin and streaks of gray in what used to be coal black hair. Dark eyes gazed at them both with a deep curiosity.

“This man is here to flip the pages of the sacred tablet,” the acolyte said.

The older priest looked at Eleven with wide eyes before motioning him inside, ignoring the younger man in a clear dismissal.

“I am Sinclair,” the master of the temple offered by way of greeting. “How may I serve?”

Eleven sank into the guest chair opposite Sinclair’s, which was too small for him to sit comfortably. He slouched down, propping his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers as he observed first the contents of the room, then allowing his eyes to rest on Sinclair.

“As your brother said, it is time for the order to receive new guidance,” Eleven responded. There would be no need for additional proof of his identity; they both knew only the prophet could turn the pages of the sacred tablet.

Sinclair took it as his cue to stand and unlock the little door to the compartment built into the wall hidden among the various research materials stashed around the room. Carefully, he retrieved the tablet, a device of Before make finely crafted within a beautiful and costly black plastic case. It had been wrapped in a handwoven cloth that was adorned with embroidered symbols that were important to the order at its edges. Sinclair gently uncovered it and delivered it to Eleven’s waiting hands. Then he stepped back, eager to witness such a rare and special event. It wasn’t during every temple master’s tenure that the prophet appeared to impart new lessons personally.

Eleven removed his gloves to better use the tablet. Normally, when the tablets didn’t have power, they displayed a static image of the last page viewed of the books they contained. He drew a much smaller device from his breast pocket and inserted it. Sinclair didn’t know it, but it held a power cell. Eleven had adapted it to fit all of the tablets held in each of the major temples himself. So far no one else was able to duplicate it, and that’s how he wanted it. But just in case, there was a pass code to open the functions of the tablet. Eleven waited a few minutes before removing the power cell and depressing the button on the side of the tablet.

Sinclair watched with awe as the prophet was bathed in radiance spilling from the glassy face of the tablet. Eleven’s long fingers swiped over its surface, searching for what the spark priests would learn next.

“Ah, here is something,” he murmured as he settled on their next lesson. He passed the tablet back to the priest. “I give you the laws of describing a curve with numbers, that you may find the center of things and know true balance.”

Sinclair accepted the divine gift of new knowledge with an impatient, hungry gaze and both hands out. The tablet continued to shine brightly for a few moments as he admired the diagrams before fading and locking the display on that page.

“Thank you, holy one,” he said finally, remembering his manners. “We will study it diligently.”

Eleven nodded, expecting nothing less. He’d spent decades working to foster a culture of intense desire for knowledge among all of the denominations. People simply didn’t join the orders if they weren’t curious enough. Or maybe greedy enough. Eleven was well aware of how much power and influence the spark priests held; when you are the only person around with a necessary skill, you can name any price. He wondered if perhaps he had failed them as a guide. In his enthusiasm for teaching them their disciplines, he had neglected the lesson about the importance of serving the greatest good.

“We have another matter to discuss,” Eleven said. “There is a pilgrim traveling to Shade’s Respite.”

Sinclair looked up from the darkened tablet. “The O’stari compound? I’ve heard that place is dangerous.”

“Their whole journey has the potential for danger,” Eleven said, putting his gloves back on. “Which is why the temples must give them aid at no cost if they ask for it.”

“How will we know it’s the right person? If it becomes common knowledge that we will assist anyone going to Shade’s Respite, everyone will claim to be going there.”

Eleven smiled, though Sinclair couldn’t see it. How many had struggled with the question down the centuries of how to determine who is worthy? This presented another learning opportunity.

“Don’t tell anyone, not even the pilgrim,” he said. “Their mission is of great importance to us, everything depends on them. But if they know it, the outcome will change. I have foreseen it.”

Sinclair nodded, acknowledging his new orders. “I will send messengers out.”

Eleven stood, preparing to leave.

“There’s one more thing that will help you recognize the pilgrim,” he said, pausing to gauge the other man’s reaction. “They are half O’stari.”


	7. Running Birds

Chapter 7

Running Birds

“Ever seen an O’stari bear? Of course not, you wouldn’t be standing here otherwise.” --Posta McDonald, arena fighter

 

Brary stood in a shop with the crumpled sheet of paper in hand while his contact finished another transaction. Palace Carl was a merchant in the nicer part of town that Brary had sold feathers to in the past. Far from the common market with its shoddily assembled stalls and impermanent tent shops, Palace’s store was housed in a building sturdily constructed from bricks with an elegantly painted design surrounding the iron lock securing the front door.

A chaotic arrangement of fine hats, clothing, and wearable baubles that the wealthier citizens of the town used to advertise their status decorated the walls of the shop in a mix of bright colors that Brary found pleasant to look at, but impractical for his lifestyle. Brary rolled his eyes at the use the merchant had made of the feathers-- they had been dyed and clipped in decorative patterns before they were stitched onto the assorted items in the shop. It seemed so denatured, like a betrayal of the true essence of the animals.

Then he noticed the necklace displayed behind the counter, resting on an angled pillow. The pendant on the leather cord was fashioned from a shining deep red jewel of Before, a piece of flat plastic that somehow captured and refracted light through its visual depths. He imagined Zanna wearing it, how it would shine next to the glistening skin of her neck on a warm day. He’d never seen her wearing anything ornamental except for those silly beads in her hair. When he rescued her, he’d make sure she had something prettier to wear.

When the last customer drifted away from the front counter, Palace motioned Brary to come around back. He always seemed to prefer to get Brary out of view of his customers as soon as possible. For once, Brary didn’t mind.

“Have you had another successful hunt?” Palace asked eagerly. “I have been inspired for a fabulous project and I need feathers.”

Brary shrugged. “I’m here on different business.”

“Oh,” was all Palace said, put out.

“I would like you to tell me what this means,” Brary continued, handing him the piece of paper. “Since you know your letters.”

Palace squinted at the messy handwriting, taking in the _creative_ spelling. 

“It looks like a list of names  and places. Attorney Tully in Fly-Jay, Jamba Zoo in Alliance, Cheford Rime in Cradle’s Edge…” He read them all aloud.

Brary chewed  one of his nails, spitting the torn piece of keratin out on the floor . “I don’t know  any of those people.”

Palace wore an expression of disgust at the hunter’s impropriety. Everyone knew it was bad manners to do one’s grooming in a place of business. Brary committed the list to memory, but took the piece of paper from Palace anyway in case he needed it later.  Without another word Brary turned and left the shop, much to the merchant’s relief.

 

Amarice looked at the strange looking birds coming their way with nervousness. She glanced over at Zanna, noticing her excited expression with even more trepidation. Zanna, for her part, couldn’t believe their good fortune.

“Running birds,” Zanna said quietly. “Their meat is delicious.”

“Uh, they’re really big,” Amarice commented, pointing out the obvious to her too optimistic companion.

“I know,” Zanna said, completely missing the point. Amarice could practically see her drooling. “One of those will feed us for weeks.”

Zanna scooted a little down the old river bank. “If we surprise them, we should be able to take down that big on one the left.”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” Zanna answered. “But Brary did it all the time. How hard can it be?”

Amarice grimaced. It didn’t look like she’d be able to convince Zanna of the foolishness of this decision. She’d heard stories of the physical prowess of people with O’stari blood. Perhaps they would be able to pull this off working together. She snuck another peek at the birds. One of the larger ones with plumes of huge, fluffy black and white feathers stretched its wings, its long neck swaying as it walked on comically long legs. She noted the strong looking claws on its feet, just imagining the damage it could do with a solid kick. Somewhat coldly, she remembered that if Zanna died, she would need to take some of her blood to Shade’s Respite. Taco said it needed to be fresh; maybe she could just mix it with water. It might even be easier than asking her for a sample once they got there.

“Alright,” she finally agreed, motioning Zanna to hide among the trees. Staying low, she also moved to the scrubby vegetation crowding around the roots of one of the trees on the opposite side of the path down to the river’s edge.

The animals made their way to the water. There were only a few adults in this group, three with dull brown feathers, smaller than the black and white one. At their feet were twenty fuzzy gray brown chicks, each as big as a large chicken, moving together as a group as if they shared one mind among them all.

Amarice glanced over when they were in position, watching Zanna draw her machete from the sheath on her hip. She took comfort in its well worn appearance, unaware of how Zanna had acquired it. She held a crowbar in her own hand, slightly rusted with rounded edges from the many times she’d used it to break into some locked room or crate from Before in the ruins of cities.

Zanna crouched, still intent on her target as the huge bird tread closer. Her eyes flickered over to Amarice, but she held mostly still. Amarice thought she could detect a faint tremor going through the other woman’s form. She almost reminded her of a cat, wiggling a little before pouncing on a mouse or small bird. Eagerness, coiled up in a gracefully athletic body. But they needed patience.

The running bird walked up to the water’s edge after the rest of its flock, keeping watch for predators. Its dark eyes seemed overly large for the size of its head, peering out under abundant, long lashes. Amarice hoped the creatures were as stupid as their relatively small heads would suggest.

Zanna took off first, running at the animals with her machete raised for the strike. She was trying to move quietly, but in her haste and excitement, her boots scrapped the ground with enough noise to alert the running birds to her presence.

The large dark bird raised its wings and fluttered its plumage like a wave. Zanna remembered Brary’s stories of hunting running birds in the past. He’d bragged about nearly getting kicked to death by one if not for his “quick thinking and fast reflexes” that allowed him to dodge out of the way just as the bird’s wickedly clawed toes struck out to disembowel him. At the time, she hadn’t been paying much attention; there were chores to do and she’d never found his stories as fascinating as he did. But if one understood their behavior, one could anticipate their attacks. She recalled Brary saying that the birds would give warning just before kicking forward, holding their wings up to keep their balance.

One of the bird’s long legs swung out in front of it, barely missing Zanna as she dodged to the side. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Amarice struggling to deter one of the smaller brown feathered birds from attacking. The others had run away, the adults keeping close to the much slower chicks. Now she understood why they were called running birds. It seemed they were completely flightless. But she didn’t have time to ponder that right now. A plan began to form in her mind.

Zanna stood up tall and waved her arms in front of the dark running bird, hoping to agitate it. Even at her remarkable height, the bird towered over her. Watching the enraged animal, she discovered a newfound respect for Brary. He might have been annoying and a little too intent on her for comfort, but she had to admit that he was good at what he did.

The running bird kicked again, but this time Zanna was ready. She ducked to the side and swung her machete hard at the back of its legs, hoping to sever something important. The blow connected and the bird screamed as it toppled over, suddenly off balance and bleeding from a deep gash on the back of its thigh.

Just as Zanna was preparing to deal a killing blow, Amarice collided with her back, sending them both tumbling. They got to their feet and jumped apart as the brown running bird flapped in annoyance and kicked at the air between them. Amarice swatted at the bird with her crowbar as Zanna shouted and waved her arms to scare it off. It backed away and took off at a run after the rest of the flock. The black bird tried to hobble after it, cooing piteously.

Zanna had butchered many chickens in her life with Temaar and she could guess at how to kill the running bird as mercifully as possible. She charged it, reaching out with one hand to grasp low on its gray, featherless neck and swung her machete to behead it. It collapsed with a soft thud, flinging sandy dirt as it went.

Amarice took a few shaky steps closer.

“It’s still moving,” she remarked, keeping back from the twitching legs.

Zanna panted, her breath stirring the blue dust veil over her nose. Amarice could tell she was grinning wide from the crinkle at the corners of her exotically pretty eyes. The streak of blood across her forehead where she’d wiped the sweat away gave her a slightly feral appearance.

“It’s dead,” Zanna assured her. “And we can sell the feathers at the next town we come to. I’m not sure what is a good price for them though.”

Amarice cocked an eyebrow, remembering the first time she’d seen Zanna shopping. “I should do the haggling.”

Zanna shrugged, happy to avoid talking to people. “Sounds good to me.”

 

Conan wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead after he finished securing the solar panel to the rooftop of the blacksmith’s shop. Sheris, town blacksmith and sister of Roof Wiggly, observed him from the a safe distance at the trapdoor leading to a ladder down to the ground floor. She was fearless in the face of heat and flying sparks, but this seemed too much like the strange magic of the spark priests to her. It reeked of the advanced tech from Before, and was therefore suspect. She didn’t often speak her fears aloud, but many times it had crossed her very sensible mind that the People from Before were the likely architects of their own destruction through their odd practices. One couldn’t steal the sun from the gods without getting burned.

Standing up straight and popping his back, which was sore after the second day of pumping the billows followed by a night sleeping on the hard shop floor, Conan gave his work one last look over before cautiously making his way to the trapdoor and climbing down the ladder. He really wanted to rest, but he’d already taken time away from the bellows for this project. He hoped it would all be worth the effort.

Conan checked the wiring he’d run from the simple battery, just some metal and acid in a jar, attached to the solar panel down through the window to a bare-bones fan he’d cobbled together the night before. Knowing that it would take some time to charge enough to run the blower, he picked up the bellows and went back to work pumping it while Sharis pushed a piece of iron into the coals. Though her short cropped, once black hair had ashy streaks and her brown face had more lines than her brother’s, Conan admired the visible strength of her tattooed arms as she pulled another piece from the fire with the tongs and went to shaping it with her hammer. Like him, she was growing old by current Earth standards, but had worked hard enough over her life to give herself a robust physique even in the absence of proper medical care.

“The solar panel will run the fan and give you a more consistent air flow, but there’s some drawbacks,” Conan said, watching the embers glow bright orange with each gust of air.

“Is it going to blow up on me?” Sharis asked, half-joking in her usual dry manner.  
“No, no, nothing like that.” Conan hurried to reassure her. “But too much dirt will keep if from working, so you’ll need to clean it once in a while.”

It might seem like another chore, but he really hoped the contraption would make her life easier in the long term. Sheris and Roof were the first people on Earth to show him kindness and he wanted to repay it, even if she would end up getting the better deal in the bargain.

“It needs sunlight, so it won’t work on cloudy days,” he continued. “Not that that seems to be much of a problem.”

When they stopped for a break an hour later, he gave her instructions about how to maintain and repair all of it. After they finished their meal, Conan flipped the lever he’d installed on the blower. He grinned broadly as the machine whirred, its blades spinning easily in its frame. Sharis checked the embers in the forge, marveling at their consistent glow.

“I owe you some fochs,” she said, admitting defeat.

“You said that it stores the power of the sun.” Her tone took on a note of concern. “How long before the sun grows dimmer?”

Conan gaped at Sharis for a moment, unsure of how to respond as the understanding of the enormity of his mission suddenly dawned on him.

 


End file.
